1. |
Katie Cruel
04:00
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When I first came to town,
They called me the roving jewel;
Now they've changed their tune,
They call me Katy Cruel,
Oh that I was where I would be,
Then I would be where I am not,
Here I am where I must be,
Go where I would, I can not,
When I first came to town,
They brought me the bottles plenty;
Now they've changed their tune,
They bring me the bottles empty,
I know who I love,
And I know who does love me;
I know where I'm going,
And I know who's going with me,
Through the woods I go,
And through the bogs and mire,
Straightway down the road,
And to my heart's desire,
Eyes as bright as coal,
Lips as bright as cherry,
and 'tis her delight
To make the young girls merry,
When I first came to town
They called me the roving jewel
Now they've changed their tune
They call me Katy Cruel
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2. |
A-beggin' I will go
03:41
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Of all the trades in England the beggin' is the best
For when a beggar's tired he can lay him down and rest
And a-beggin' I will go
And a-beggin' I will go
I've a poke for me ma'le and another for me rye
I've a bottle by me side, to drink when I am dry
I've a poke for me salt an another for me malt
I've a pair of little crutches, you should see how I can halt.
There's patches on my fusty coat and a black patch on my eye
But when it comes to tuppenny ale I can see as well as thee
My britches they are no but holes but my heart is free of care
As long as I've my belly full my backside can go bare
I've been deaf at Duckinfield and I've been blind at Shaw
And many's the right and willing lass I've bedded in the straw
I've been a beggin' seven years with me ol' wooden leg
For lame I've been, since I was born, and so I'm forced to beg
In a hollow tree I pass the night, and there I pay no rent
Providence provides for me, and I am well content
I can rest when I am tired and I heed no master's bell
You men'd be daft to be a king when beggars live so well
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3. |
I'm a workin' chap
04:48
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I am a working chap as you may see,
You'll find an honest lad in me;
I'm neither haught, mean nor proud,
Nor ever tak's the thing too rude.
I never gang abune my means,
Nor seek assistance frae my frien's,
But day and nicht thro' thick and thin,
I'm workin' life oot to keep life in.
Nae matter, frien's, whate'er befa'
The puir folks they maun work awa,
Thro' frost and snaw and rain and wind,
They're workin' life oot to keep life in.
The puir needle-woman that we saw,
In reality, and on the wa',
A picture sorrowful to see,
I'm sure wi' me you'll a' agree;
Her pay's scarce able to feed a mouse,
Far less to keep hersel' and house,
She's naked, hungry, pale and thin,
Workin' life oot to keep life in.
Don't ca' a man a drunken sot
Because he wears a ragged coat;
It's better far, mind, don't forget,
To rin in rags than rin in debt.
He may look seedy, very true,
But still his creditors are few;
And he toddles on devoid of sin,
Workin' life oot to keep life in.
But maybe, frien's, I've stayed ower lang,
But I hope I hae said naething wrang;
I only merely want to show
The way the puir folk hae to go.
Just look at a man wi' a housefu' o' bairns,
To rear them up it tak's a' he earns,
Wi' a willin' heart and a coat gey thin,
He's workin' life oot to keep life in.
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4. |
Pastures of plenty
03:05
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It's a mighty hard row that my poor hands have hoed
My poor feet have traveled a hot dusty road
Out of your Dust Bowl and Westward we rolled
And your deserts were hot and your mountains were cold
I worked in your orchards of peaches and prunes
I slept on the ground in the light of the moon
On the edge of the city you'll see us and then
We come with the dust and we go with the wind
California, Arizona, I harvest your crops
Well its North up to Oregon to gather your hops
Dig the beets from your ground, cut the grapes from your vine
To set on your table your light sparkling wine
Green pastures of plenty from dry desert ground
From the Grand Coulee Dam where the waters run down
Every state in the Union us migrants have been
We'll work in this fight and we'll fight till we win
It's always we rambled, that river and I
All along your green valley, I will work till I die
My land I'll defend with my life if it be
Cause my pastures of plenty must always be free
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5. |
Blind fiddler
05:33
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I lost my eyes in the Harlan pits in the year of '56
While pulling a faulty drill chain that was out of fix
It bounded from the wheel and there concealed my doom
I am a blind fiddler far from my home.
I went up into Louisville to visit Dr. Lane
He operated on one of my eyes still it is the same
The Blue Ridge can't support me it just ain't got the room
Would a wealthy colliery owner like to hear a fiddler's tune?
With politics and threatening tones the owners can control
And the unions have all left us a long, long time ago
Machinery lying scattered, no drill sounds in the mine
For all the good a collier is, he might as well be blind.
Was a time I worked a long fourteen for a short eight bucks a day
You're lucky if you're mining, that's what the owners say
And if you've got complaining, you'd better aim to keep it low
How come they took my food stamps, does anybody know?
My father was a miner's son, a miner still is he
But his eyes have took a fever, and there's a shaking in his knee
The holes are closing rapidly, he cannot understand
Machine has got a bigger arm than him or other men.
Plastic for the windows, cardboard for the door
The baby's mouth is twisting, it'll twist a little more
They need welders in Chicago falls hollow to the floor
How many miners made that trip a thousand times or more.
The lights are burning bright, there's laughter in the town
But the streets are dark and empty, there ain't a miner to be found
They're in some lonesome hollow, where the sun refuse to shine
And the baby's screams are muffled in the sweetness of the wine.
With a wife and four young children depending now on me
Whatever can I serve them, my God, I cannot see
Through the Blue Ridge Mountains I am content to roam
I am a blind fiddler, far from my home
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Known Dwarf France
Known Dwarf revisite cinq siècles de folksongs anglo-saxonnes.
Chansons de tavernes du XVIIe siècle, vieilles ballades,
chansons de mineurs et de marins, chansons de révolte, elles parlent de la vie, de l’amour, de la mort, du travail, voire de tout ça en même temps. C’est l’occasion d’y croiser les conscrits du XVIIIe siècle, les travailleurs itinérants ou les ouvriers en grève.
... more
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